


Gascony Gastronomy

by KitsJay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, I am aware it should be Gascon Gastronomy, I have a thing for bakery things okay, but that's not as catchy, kinkmeme fill, probably shouldn't read if you're vegetarian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan shares a taste of home with his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gascony Gastronomy

_1\. Garbure_

Paris was a lady in lace and silk skirts, twirling around the dance floor, laughing but never caught. Those that chased her found their arms full of air and the sweet scent of perfume lingering around them. D’Artagnan was by no means a rube; his father had taken him on trips across France, even to Paris before, and he always was delighted by the shops and people, the narrow, crowded streets, and the hundred dramas that played out daily by the actors of France’s jewel. His first day of true freedom - freedom from the burden of his father’s death, freedom from the overwhelming grief that left him clutching his chest for breath, and freedom from the duties attendant with becoming an honorary Musketeer - he found himself wandering aimlessly through the city. The sounds of children running past screaming with delight, grocers shouting their wares in voices that carried, and harried housewives gossiping on the street corners filled his ears. Gascony was quiet, for the most part, he thought, at least compared to the ever-present din of Paris.

A smell wafted past him and on impulse he followed it to a modest grocer’s stall tucked away down one of the market streets. 

“ _Bon jour_ ,” he greeted her warmly, unsurprised when she grunted at him in reply. 

Another difference between Paris and his home, he thought, then shook himself. His first day of freedom and he felt a pang of homesickness so strong he could taste it thick at the back of his throat. The vendor was giving him a hostile look, and he bent to examine the crates of vegetables lined in neat rows around her. He picked out a leek, earthy and green, a Spanish onion so pungent he could smell it through the paper skin, and some carrots. The woman accepted the coins without looking at him. 

A vendor farther down had duck, and another sold him a clove of garlic and fresh-picked thyme, its delicate leaves bruising under his touch. He could raid Constance’s larder for the other ingredients he needed. 

The homesickness taste was drowned out by the memory of his mother’s garbure, warm and thick on cold nights in Gascony. Paris might be a lady, but Gascony was a mother.

_2\. Lamprey à la Bordelaise_

“Ugh,” Porthos grimaced. “What _is_ that?”

Aramis peered over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, his face twisting up. “Is that your supper or are you taking out the kitchen scraps?”

“It’s good,” d’Artagnan said defensively, mouth full of his meal. His trips to the market streets had yielded a fishmonger who sold fresh-caught lamprey. They looked revolting hanging on the stakes, long eely bodies already beginning to smell in the Paris heat. He had bought one and prepared it outside; Constance had taken one look and forbidden something so ugly in her house. A bottle of wine had formed the base of the sauce, thickened by the lamprey’s blood until it formed a heavy stew, garnished with thick chunks of tender meat. 

Even Athos looked skeptical as he caught a whiff of the dish. 

“Eat that somewhere else,” Porthos complained. “It reeks to high heaven.”

Muttering about philistine tastes, d’Artagnan gathered his bowl and wounded pride outside, where he relaxed against the stone walls of the garrison, sipping the mellow, earthy sauce and soaking in the sunlight.

Captain Treville walked past with his usual brisk stride, then slowed. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It really is good,” d’Artagnan said with a touch of exasperation. He realized who he was talking to and belatedly added, “Sir.”

“It’s a favorite of the king’s, I believe,” said Treville. “The chef protects his recipe like a newborn child. Where on earth did you find someone to make it?”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to answer, but was saved by what sounded suspiciously like a gunshot coming from inside the garrison, followed closely by an ominous and somewhat guilty sounding silence. Treville rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Alright,” he said as he slammed the door open. “What’s going on in here?”

Wisely deciding that he would only get in the way were he to go back in, d’Artagnan decided to eat the rest of his meal by the stables. At least the horses never complained that royal delicacies smelled like rotting fish.

_3\. Confit de Canard_

The smell of fat rendering in the air, slowly cooking the meat basting in a pool of it, made d’Artagnan’s mouth water. It had taken him ages to find a good, fatty duck, one that would provide enough fat to not only cover the meat, but also a few potatoes as well. The sound of sizzling fat stirred a memory of his mother spending an entire day or more preparing the unfortunate ducks who were to grace their plates at night. The pieces of meat had to be chopped into small pieces, and all of the excess fat trimmed and reserved. The meat would be covered with salt for at least half a day. The promise of such a meal the next day was enough to make his stomach grumble. The meat would be tossed into a pot with the fat and poached until it was tender enough to pierce easily, juicy and slightly greasy, and his mother would garnish it with thyme, sprigs of rosemary, and green savory leaves.

“Never too much,” he remembered her telling him one day when, as a child, he went on tip-toes to watch her work. “It will overpower the flavor. Duck is strong, so you can use more, but never too much.”

With expert hands, he stripped the thyme leaves and a few sprigs of rosemary – too strong for very many – and bruised the savory between his fingers before placing on top. The true flavor of the herbs were transferred when the meat was curing, but his mother had always put a few on top, for color, she would say with a laugh. He left it on the table, knowing Constance would be home soon, exhausted from delivering orders for her husband while he was away on business, and running the household on top of that. She often collapsed into bed without food, a concept that d’Artagnan was strenuously opposed to on a deep, nationalistic level. 

If she asked, he would say that he bought it for her from a tavern.

  
_4\. Foie gras_

The goose stared at him. He stared back. Aramis snickered. 

D’Artagnan flapped his arms, hoping to scare the thing away, but the goose merely stood there, guarding his boot with grim determination.

“The mighty Musketeer, scared of a goose,” Aramis said from behind him. 

D’Artagnan huffed. “I’m not scared of it.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. Have you ever been bitten by a goose?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever had that honor,” said Aramis.

“They’re mean, vicious, hideous animals,” d’Artagnan said darkly. He still held a grudge against one of their geese, a monstrous thing who strutted around the farm as if he owned it, terrorizing the dogs that tried to sleep in the shade, or the chickens who scattered when the beast appeared. “The only thing they’re good for is _foie gras_.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever had that, either,” Aramis said, leaning against a tree. 

“You’ve never had _foie gras_?” d’Artagnan was momentarily distracted. His eyes left the beady ones of the goose for a moment as they unfocused, lost in the memory of soft pâté. “It’s wonderful. It’s so creamy and rich. It practically melts on your tongue.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows. “Shall I give you a moment?”

“Parisians,” d’Artagnan snorted, then let out an almighty yelp. The goose had apparently taken offense to the talk of its liver and had delivered a peck to d’Artagnan’s uncovered foot. He jumped back, wildly kicking at it as it flapped its wings and came after him. After a moment, Aramis finally managed to stop laughing long enough to shoo it away. Apparently two Musketeers was too much even for a goose, though the gander surrendered with ill grace, fluffing his feathers as he waddled away. D’Artagnan held his boot aloft, covered in mud and reeds, and watched a river of pond water drip out of it in a steady flow. 

“Damnable creature,” he muttered irritably, jamming the wet boot back onto his foot. It made a squelching noise when he stood on it. 

Aramis nodded. “Truly, a bird most fowl.”

_5\. Croustade aux Pommes_

Even had d’Artagnan thought of mentioning his flair for the culinary arts, he would never have dared mention that he was an old hand at baking. Serge was the saltiest, crustiest man in the garrison and would have soundly thrashed anyone who dared intimate that cooking was a woman’s job, but even he would draw the line at baking. That, d’Artagnan felt, was strictly women’s work. However, his mother often needed an extra hand with meals, and d’Artagnan, being the only one old enough to reach the top of the table, was recruited. Under her tutelage, he learned to pare apples with a quick twist of his wrist, then cut them into thin slices. Beside him, she would pat her hands down with flour and stretch out the flaky dough for the crust.

If she was feeling playful, she would reach out and pat some flour into his hair, leaving it a gray color, and he would giggle and imitate his grandfather, hobbling around and clutching his back while his mother leaned against the table, laughing until she cried. The crunch of an apple or the smell of flour and sweet strudel baking will always be entwined with the sight of her wiping tears from her eyes, smiling until her eyes crinkled, and the memory of the way she always smelled like herbs and yeast, and how his father could hear her laughter from outside the door. She held his hands and taught him to stretch the dough so as not to tear it, rolling it gently, and making it yield to her hands. Together, they filled the small bowls with the apples marinated in Armagnac, the sugars mixing with the brandy until it smelled faintly of vanilla and butter. 

After it was ready, she would let him have one, just one, tart, and he would take it outside and savor it. The crusty, flaky dough and the warm sugary apples tasted like heaven to him. Even though he learned at his mother’s knee, he never can quite recreate that exact same taste, but that doesn’t stop him from trying – each time he smells one, he can almost hear his mother laughing again.

_+1 Poulet Basquaise_

“We found a chicken,” Porthos announced, bringing the creature in slung over his back.

Athos raised his eyebrows. “ ‘Found’ a chicken? Was the chicken already dead?”

“Let’s not dwell on the past,” Aramis said, clapping his hands together. “I’m starving.”

After two weeks of training exercises, the four had collectively voted not to eat another meal of the provided rations, which, despite the de facto cooks’ best efforts, still came out tasting like soldier rations. They may have been soldiers, they mutually agreed, but they were _French_ soldiers. They refused to eat like the English.

“The question is, does anyone know how to prepare it?” Athos said.

Porthos shrugged. “I can butcher it, but I’m likely to burn it to a crisp if I try to cook.”

“As am I,” Aramis said with a grin and a shrug. “Women usually do the cooking for me.”

“Salt it and throw it over the fire, I guess,” Athos suggested, and was cut off by d’Artagnan’s indignant voice.

“Salt and – Porthos, get it ready,” d’Artagnan said, slinking outside. The others glanced at each other before shrugging, helping to pluck the chicken and scrape off the downy feathers that clung to its naked skin. An hour later, d’Artagnan was back, laden with an onion, tomatoes, and a bell pepper. He produced some delicate white flowers, the bulbs of which he cut off and threw into a pot with the chicken meat. After a few minutes, the smell of garlic was wafting through the air, and the chicken’s meat crackled over the fire. 

D’Artagnan sliced the onions as thin as he could manage, then expertly diced the bell pepper and cut the tomatoes, throwing them into the pot as well. A little bit of water was added, then some salt, and he leaned back, stirring the dish constantly until a mouth-watering aroma filled the air.

“It’s done,” he said, checking the chicken and nodding with satisfaction. 

At the first bite, Aramis calmly walked over to d’Artagnan, knelt before him, and grabbed his hand. “Marry me, d’Artagnan.”

“Stop that,” d’Artagnan yanked his hand back. Porthos was scarfing down his food like he hadn’t eaten in days, but nodded approvingly. Even Athos looked impressed.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“It’s not hard,” d’Artagnan shrugged. “Just a few herbs, vegetables, and some water to keep it from burning.”

“If I tried to make this,” Porthos said around a mouthful of the stew, “it would have come out looking like a stable-yard after a hard rain.”

Athos gave a half-smile. “You’ll never lack for friends with a skill like that, lad.”

Glad for his long hair which covered his face, d’Artagnan hid his pleased smile in his bowl. It was a useful skill to have, he mused, but even without it, he doubted he would ever lack for friends ever again.


End file.
